


Three Men in a Cage

by badass_normal



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-19
Updated: 2009-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badass_normal/pseuds/badass_normal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mahone and Whistler take advantage of Michael. He enjoys it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Men in a Cage

As the world flickered back into existence, Michael analyzed the data he was receiving from each of his senses separately. First and most importantly, his body was in a very awkward position, somewhere between lying and sitting. This was apparently because he was being held up by the sharp handcuffs around his wrists, which were locking him firmly to the barred, now-closed door to his cell. His abdominals engaged immediately to keep some of the weight from his wrists, but he didn't know how long he could keep that up. Only after he had taken time to process this could he move onto examining the situation.

Across the darkened cell, leaning casually against the wall, arms folded and face spectacularly wooden, stood James Whistler. And there was someone at his back, too, on the other side of the gate. He could guess who it was easily enough.

"You're kidding," he said hoarsely, trying to sit up further, but not being able to because of how low his wrists had been cuffed on the gate. "What's your plan, trap me here while you try to escape without me? Where exactly does that get you?"

Sure enough, he felt the person behind him kneel onto the ground, and caught the scent he had memorized after a handful of memorable encounters over the past few weeks. "Oh no, Michael," the throaty growl whispered into his ear. "What would we do without you, after all?"

He kept his eyes locked on Whistler for two reasons. First of all, he was on the same side of the fence as him, which meant he could do more immediate damage. And secondly, if he had to venture a guess as to which of these men had the other on a leash, he would put his money on the one who wasn't in withdrawal. Which meant this was his idea.

"You know," Whistler spoke coldly, lips barely moving, "call me paranoid, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you and your friends on the outside aren't feeling particularly warm toward myself or Alex." He unfolded his arms and put his hands on his hips. "In fact, we're both cynical enough to assume that the minute we break out, we're going to be somehow betrayed by you lot and either tossed back in here, or killed."

"Let's just say that you have a record for selling out your former allies, Scofield," Alex added from behind, and to Michael's horror he felt a finger, poked through from the other side of the gate, trace his jaw-line.

"Why don't you two just play with each other?" he snapped, trying to turn his head around to catch Alex, but unable to achieve such a range of movement.

"Funny you should mention that," Whistler said. "We _do_ enjoy the same kinds of games. And the same kind of meat to prey on." His gaze was nothing short of openly lascivious, and Michael had a sinking feeling that he fell under the classification of "meat." Sure enough, after a moment or two Whistler moved, like a cat strutting his way across the room to him. A big, predatory, lethal cat, footsteps thunking heavily against the concrete.

When Whistler was directly in front of him, he squatted back onto his heels right before Michael's outstretched legs. He noticed a bruise on the other man's face, still purpled from one of their two high-stakes fist fights, and felt a strangely twisted sense of satisfaction. Whistler seemed to be thinking along the same lines, as he touched the swelling contemplatively. "I'm intrigued by this vicious side you seem to have, Michael." He could feel Alex backing away from the fence, as though to give them space. He wondered if the two of them had every last detail of this scene planned out ahead of time.

Whistler began crawling forward, adding to the feline image he was already projecting, until he was straddling Michael and staring at his mouth, face inches from his. He put his hand on the neck of Michael's shirt and pushed it aside, running his thumb along the dividing line between normal and stained-blue skin.

He heard an interesting growl from behind him, as Whistler continued to trace the edge of the tattoo, first with his fingers, then with his tongue. Michael shoved at him with his abdomen, trying to push him away, but with his hands cuffed above his head there wasn't much he could do. "Don't fight it, Michael," Alex whispered against the back of his neck, suddenly close again.

"Get off," Michael ordered.

"Mm, I think I will," Whistler took the double entendre Michael had unintentionally offered, rubbing against his crotch in a single, steady grind, and bringing a reluctant stir to his groin. "Feel like helping me out?" Whistler had trailed one hand lackadaisically down his stomach to the front of his pants, where he allowed it to linger. He began stroking him through his pants, and Michael struggled to find something repulsive to think about. Because for some reason he didn't want to contemplate, thinking about the horrible things both of these men had probably done was certainly not enough to calm him down.

"No witty riposte, Michael? I'm disappointed." If it hadn't been for the lack of an Australian accent, Michael would not have been able to tell which voice had spoken against his neck this time. Whistler had already worked his zipper down, and his skilled hand immediately brought him to a full erection.

He bucked his hips in response, in an attempt to dislodge him, and with the hand that wasn't touching him, Whistler reached out and grabbed the bars on the cell door, while clamping down powerful quad muscles to keep himself from being thrown off.

"My kind of foreplay," he said with a gasp. "You?"

Fighting his cuffs desperately, he growled nonverbally at both of them. Whistler kept his hand wrapped around Michael's cock but didn't move it, instead lifting his head up from Michael's skin and opting to flick his eyes up to where Alex had also somewhat surfaced. "How long do you want it to last, Alex?" Whistler asked him.

"Make him suffer," Alex whispered, "make me suffer," and Michael felt a warm hand grasp his. He realized that his own hand was squeezing Alex's, that he was unconsciously leaning backward, and acknowledged mentally that he felt more comfortable seeking the touch of the man who had killed his father than the man he knew nothing about.

Without warning Whistler withdrew from him and knelt once more between his legs, even as he kept one hand on his visible, rather prominent erection. Whistler lowered his head and brushed his lips against the tip before taking his length into his mouth, granting him one long, slow lick. Then he did it again, achingly slowly, wrapping his tongue around him, and once again, although always avoiding the sensitive head, each of his touches unsatisfying. In high school, this would have qualified as bad head. Now, here, in the dark cell, from a man like Whistler, it was a nonverbal communication that he had no intention of getting him off. His plan was to keep him just hard enough for it to be uncomfortable, until…well, he didn't know what Whistler's endgame was yet.

He left his cock for a moment and lightly teased his balls with his tongue, now gripping his length with his hand and rubbing his thumb through the precum on the head. Michael felt a warm, wet mouth suddenly close over one of his fingers, and his body shuddered as Alex mimicked what he so wanted, needed, Whistler to be doing to his cock, on his finger. That Alex could definitely see every detail for some horrifying reason made it more exciting, and he responded to Whistler's subtle attention with a groan.

Lifting up his head, Whistler saw what Alex was doing and smiled, and Michael let out a choked gasp as the man's tongue went to work. "I'm not the only one who turns you on," he said huskily, jerking him a few times with his fist before bending down to fully take him into his mouth once again. Somehow they were moving in unison, licking and sucking, and Michael felt his hips begin an instinctive grind, utterly helpless because of the cuffs. He felt his hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms until they bled.

Although Alex kept sucking, Whistler was not nearly as generous. Occasionally, right when he thought he might be on the brink, the man would pull away and nip at his stomach, tease his navel, gently fondle his sac. He could even feel him smiling against his abs, breathing hotly against his skin. But Alex's mouth on his finger was alarmingly erotic itself.

"Uh," Michael suddenly groaned, hips slamming forward and the skin on his wrists tearing from the cuffs. He could feel the thwarted orgasm building in his loins once again, this time unavoidable, white spots in front of his eyes. And then Whistler moved away, stood up, and Michael roared impulsively in response. "Son of a bitch!" He was very aware that he could accidentally wake his neighbors, and swallowed the additional moan that threatened to break from his mouth.

Before he could take in what was happening, since he still couldn't really see through the vicious, overwhelming haze of his arousal, he was uncuffed, the door opened. A pair of strong hands grabbed onto his hips, flipped him onto his hands and knees. His jeans were being unzipped, pulled down over his hindquarters. There was a hardened dick against his buttocks, and Alex's lips on his ear, whispering a string of profanities that let Michael know exactly what was about to happen.

Couldn't happen soon enough, either. He cried out hoarsely when Alex, contritely gentle, slid into him, causing him next-to-no actual pain. It only lasted as a brief moment of courtesy, however, before Alex's fingernails bit angrily into his hips, an erotic growl pressed against the back of Michael's neck. He could only think that Alex had done this before, many times. Fucked men. Because he found something inside Michael almost immediately, something that had Michael lifting his fist to his mouth and biting down to keep from alerting the entire prison to their nighttime activities.

One of Alex's hands migrated from Michael's hip to his cock, and synchronizing the movements of his fist with his powerful thrusts, had Michael coming in a fountain within a minute. A moment later Alex succumbed to his own orgasm, sinking his teeth angrily into Michael's shoulder.

Michael nearly collapsed onto the floor, bowing his head as the last of his semen drenched Alex's hand, and felt the other man climb off of him with a startling amount of grace.

"God," he whispered unconsciously, sagging forward. He looked up and saw Whistler standing back where he had started, against the wall. The telltale bulge in his jeans was clearly begging to be taken care of, but he seemed alarmingly nonchalant about it.

"Just one more incentive to take us both along," he drawled in his Australian accent. "It looks like you enjoy our games just as much as we do, after all."

The men silently retreated, and Michael was left in his cell to imagine just how Alex was getting Whistler off. To think about what he was missing.


End file.
